In that hour around the house I was singing as I danced to that maiden of the hills, the child of Zeus; when there rang along the town a cry of death which filled the homes of Troy, and babies in terror clung about their mothers’ skirts, as forth from their ambush came the warrior-band, the handiwork of maiden Pallas. Soon the altars ran with Phrygian blood, and desolation reigned over every bed where young men lay beheaded, a glorious crown for Hellas won, for her, the nurse of youth, but for our Phrygian fatherland a bitter grief.

Chorus LeaderHecuba, do you see Andromache advancing here on a foreign chariot? and with her, clasped to her throbbing breast, is her dear Astyanax, Hector’s child. Where are you being carried, unhappy wife, mounted on that chariot, side by side with Hector’s brazen arms and Phrygian spoils of war, with which Achilles’ son will deck the shrines of Phthia on his return from Troy?

AndromacheMy Achaean masters are leading me away.HecubaAh me!AndromacheWhy do you in note of woe utter the dirge that is mine?HecubaAlas—AndromacheFor these sorrows—HecubaO Zeus—AndromacheAnd for this calamity.HecubaO my children!AndromacheOur day is past.

HecubaJoy is gone, Troy is gone.AndromacheUnhappy!HecubaFor my gallant sonsAndromacheAlas!